


Patching Up

by Fenix21



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Injury, M/M, One Shot, emotional affirmation, mature porn with feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6121522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are injured after a hunt. There is more to their patching up than just stitches and bandages.</p><p>  <em>There were no words between them. There didn't need to be. This was an affirmation of life. Even if the job had only been one ancient ghost who'd learned to wield a knife and twenty-two ought rifle with a special talent for throwing heavy objects, including them; none of that mattered. It could easily have been a thousand Demons and this would still have been necessary. Because there was blood and sweat and always that moment that things could have gone left instead of right. This was how they gave thanks, to the one or hundred gods that might be out there watching, with this appreciation of each other, this quiet surrender to the love they shared.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Patching Up

**Author's Note:**

> So this started out as a 'thing,' a kind of statement on how neither Sam nor Dean was really the 'feminine' in their relationship because I'd just finished reading several small pieces that put one or the other of them there, and I just had to do something about that, and then, well, it evolved into this...whatever this is.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

_Looking_ at the Winchester brothers—if anyone could even begin to wrap their head around how much the two men loved each other—one might be deluded into believing that Dean was the 'girl' in their relationship. He was the pretty one, charming, flirty, more outgoing than his taller, darker counterpart.

 _Knowing_ the Winchester brothers, one would assume just the opposite as it became clearer over time that Sam's brooding silences were trademarks to a heart he wore on his sleeve and a ready willingness to share it with the poor, damaged souls they encountered.

However, none of that was true.

Most relationships have a dominant partner and most are unbalanced, leaving one to give more than the other, to sacrifice more than the other. The dynamics shift and change over the years of those that manage to last long term, but there are few if any moments of true equality.

It was something that made the Winchesters unique—neither of them had any idea how to give less than a hundred and ten percent to the other one.

'Jesus, fuck! Dean! Would you just—?'

Sam bit down on his lip and swore viciously as Dean pressed the tip of his knife into the wound just below Sam's last rib on the left side.

'Don't be a baby,' Dean growled. 'If I don't get this out you could get lead poisoning.'

Sam sucked in a harsh breath as Dean's knife slid deeper, slicing the edges of the wound.

'Not very damn likely,' he swore again. 'I've got a better chance of getting an infection from the monster guts still on that blade while _you_ are going to bleed out from that gash on your leg if you don't let me stitch you up.'

Dean snorted, but it was a little off, less snarky than normal. 'It's a scratch, Sam. Had worse, and you know it.' 

'Yeah, that's why there's a pool of blood on the Impala's seat,' Sam gritted.

'Heh, I wasn't the only one bleedin' on her. Whole damn front seat's gonna need cleaning,' Dean mumbled. 'Now, hold still. I almost got it.'

Three minutes later a .22 bullet rattled into the bottom of the motel provided plastic cup from the bathroom, and Sam let out a long held breath littered with an impressive variety of curses.

'Goddamn, I forgot how much that hurts.'

'Yeah, been a while,' Dean said setting the knife aside and grabbing the bottle of cheap, high proof whisky from their med kit. 'Ready?'

Sam curled his fingers under his kneecaps and gave a sharp nod. 'Go for it.'

Dean poured the liquor on the wound, and Sam hissed at the sting. Then he blotted it carefully dry with a clean towel and proceeded to put three precise stitches in before dowsing it again and taping it up with a thick gauze pad.

The moment Dean's hands left him, Sam turned around and started pushing him back on the bed.

'Whoa, little brother,' Dean held up his hands in mock surrender and smirked, but it was off kilter from pain and blood loss. 'I'm always up for a good fuck, but what say we shower first 'cause, man, you reek.'

He tried to push himself into a sitting position but slipped back against the pillows, dizzy and panting just a little.

'Dean, you fucking moron,' Sam pronounced when he got the shredded denim peeled away from Dean's thigh. The gash was a good six inches long, and deep. A lot deeper than Sam liked to treat with bad bourbon and catgut. He scowled and carefully picked threads of fabric from the wound. The only good thing that could be said was that the flesh was cleanly cut and not ragged or torn.

'You're still leaking pretty bad, Dean. I think you may have nicked the artery.'

'Fuck,' Dean spat, because he knew what that meant. John had cauterized a puncture wound he'd gotten from a pissed off Pixnicched up near the Canada border the second year Sam was at Stanford. Dean had come a hair's breadth from passing out and ended up vomiting from the stench of burning flesh. It was not one of his favorite memories.

'Dean? Hey, stay with me,' Sam was saying. He had a folded towel pressed to Dean's thigh, and he was rummaging one of their bags with the other hand for their stash of summoning candles.

'I'm right here,' Dean said, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. 

Sam swore, grabbed Dean's hand and traded it for his own on the towel so he could light one of the candles. 'Right. 'Cause you're whiter than the damn spirit we just put down. Now, hold that and stay with me.'

'Yes, mom.'

Sam let the thin thread of a smile lift the left corner of his mouth, and Dean tipped his head back against the wall and started singing Bob Seger's _Still the Same_ under his breath. Sam would have chuckled at that except for the sense of foreboding that settled over him at the melancholy tune.

He heated the knife, cauterized his brother's wound, held the trashcan and his head when he gave in and threw up at the smell of scorched flash, and put in twenty-seven stitches across the big muscle of Dean's thigh to ensure it healed well and didn't split open. He dowsed the cut and bandaged it and, ignoring the burning in his own back, set to work clearing up the bloody wreckage of their latest patch-up session.

A shower would have been nice, because Dean was right, they pretty much both reeked from that damn bog, but neither of them was in any shape to stay standing up long enough to accomplish the task. So it was sponge baths all around with the least bloody of the remaining bathroom linens.

Dean grumbled and made innuendos of everything Sam said before during and after, but he didn't complain when Sam stripped him with careful, efficient hands and tucked him under the sheets before cursorily wiping himself down and then crawling in behind him.

Sam snugged himself to his brother's back and slipped an arm around his ribs to keep them both on their sides and off of their still tender wounds.

Dean settled back against him with something between a sigh and a whimper, and pulled Sam's hand up to brush a kiss across his split knuckles that he hadn't bothered to wrap because they were the least of his injuries and superficial.

'Sammy...'

It was as good as 'I love you,' Dean's way of saying his name. Sam had learned at an early age to decipher the meaning in all the ways his brother spoke his name, and later on to interpret his silences as well. Because the truth was in what Dean Winchester did not say. He had always felt that way, that if something were truly worth saying, paradoxically, there were no words to express it, and Sam was okay with that.

Sam pressed his lips to the soft, sensitive skin just behind and below Dean's ear. It wasn't a kiss exactly. It was more a sustained reassurance, an 'I love you' of his own, of equal value, written in silence and the warmth of skin on skin.

Dean moved back toward the touch and Sam forward, just a shifting of weight, one against the other. Dean let out a long, low breath at the solid feel if Sam's hot, hard length against him. Sam opened his lips and asked with a soft scrape of teeth along the side of Dean's neck. Dean gave permission by pressing Sam's hand flat against his trembling belly.

Sam sighed into his skin and moved, easy and sure, rocking against Dean until there was enough slick warmth between them to offer him entrance to Dean's tight heat. He pushed, slow and steady, feeling Dean breathe deep through the burn and stretch as he took his brother inside him, squeezing and clenching and drawing him deeper.

There were no words between them. There didn't need to be. This was an affirmation of life. Even if the job had only been one ancient ghost who'd learned to wield a knife and twenty-two ought rifle with a special talent for throwing heavy objects, including them; none of that mattered. It could easily have been a thousand Demons and this would still have been necessary. Because there was blood and sweat and always that moment that things could have gone left instead of right. This was how they gave thanks, to the one or hundred gods that might be out there watching, with this appreciation of each other, this quiet surrender to the love they shared.

There was barely any movement. Only enough for Sam to slide full length into his brother's silken, grasping heat. Sam latched onto the curve of Dean's shoulder and suckled there, chewing gently and insistently as every muscle in his body tightened toward climax. Beneath his hand, Dean's belly quivered and flexed, muscles rolling with his own building wave, translating to the most exquisite rhythm of rippling pulls that drew Sam ever deeper and made him swell harder.

'Sam.'

One rough, guttural whisper was as much as Dean could manage in warning that he was seconds away from spilling himself, hot and sticky, all over the sheets. Sam set his teeth and moved his hand, wrapping his long, agile fingers firm and tight around his brother's twitching, pulsing length. He didn't move. He didn't have to. He felt Dean's body go taut like a pulled ripcord as he came in thick, hot spurts, dribbling over the back of Sam's gripping hand. 

That was all it took for Sam. He curled along the still tightly drawn bow curve of Dean's back and let himself come long and deep, gushing through his brother's insides, making him come a second time, until he was shivering with the aftershocks and limp in Sam's tight embrace. Sam released his hold on Dean's shoulder, laving the flat of his tongue softly over the bruise he had left there, then moved on to nuzzle into the soft, short hairs at the back of his neck and kiss there, sleepy and sated.

'Sam...'

This time it was a bare thread of sound laden with the promise of a dreamless sleep, that said 'thank you' and 'I'm glad you're alive' and 'don't ever leave me.'

Sam sighed his response in kind in a warm wash of breath across Dean's scalp, and moved his arm back to circle Dean's chest and rest the palm of his hand on his heart, taking the beat of it into himself like the sweet, eternal promise it was that his brother would be there with him tomorrow and tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that.

Because this made them strong, this love that rooted itself in the steadfastness of mountains and the everlasting rhythm of the seas, and it would carry them through all things, all dangers, even death. Because such things could never die, never diminish, only go on and on past the edges of man's understanding into the ether of all things, back to the Beginning of Creation where it was birthed and would begin its journey all over again.


End file.
